A -MARRIAGE -CYCLE 


IRLF 


B    3    S7T    MEfi 


ALICE  •  FREEMAN  •  PALMER 


A    MARRIAGE    CYCLE 


*  * 


A  MARRIAGE   CYCLE 


BY 
ALICE  FREEMAN   PALMER 


WITH    A    PREFACE    BY 
GEORGE  HERBERT  PALMER 


BOSTON    AND    NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1915,   BY  GEORGE  HERBERT  PALMER 
ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  October  IQIJ 


THIRD   IMPRESSION 


CONTENTS 

PREFACE  1X 

THE    APPROACH 

THE    BIRTH-DAY 

FORBIDDEN 

HESITATION 

THE    HEALING    POOL 

THE    SURRENDER 

THE    SINGING    HEART 

THE    PICTURE 

MEETING  15 

PARTING  16 

THE    DRESS  17 

THE    PATIENCE    OF    HOPE  18 

BEFORE    THE    WEDDING  19 

THE    WEDDING    SONG  20 

TOGETHER 

BOXFORD 

ATTAINMENT  24 

THE    BUTTERFLY  25 

THE    PRESENT    HEAVEN  2Q 


vi  CONTENTS 

A  SONG  27 

BEFORE  THE  MOWING  28 

SUMMER  RAIN  SO 

SUNSET  31 

NIGHTFALL  3? 

THE    GLORY    OF    THE    WORLD  33 

A    SPRING    JOURNEY  34 

MYSELF  83 

THE    OPPORTUNITY    MISSED  38 

IN   THE    VALLEY  40 

A    DREAM  41 

DAYS    AND    YEARS  42 

THE    TIES    OF    SEPARATION  43 

THE    POETS  44 

HALLOWED    PLACES  45 

HOARDED    GOLD  46 

UNTROUBLED  48 

DECEMBER  49 

A    COMMUNION    HYMN  51 

THE   PARTING 

RESTING  55 

SUFFOCATION  56 

ACQUAINTANCE    WITH    GRIEF  57 

COMPANIONSHIP  58 


CONTENTS  vii 

THE   VISION  59 

THE   TEMPEST  60 

THE   CRISIS  61 

ON    A   GLOOMY    EASTER  62 

THE   CURE  64 

ASSURANCE  66 

THE   LAST   ANNIVERSARY  67 

RETROSPECT  69 


PREFACE 

ALICE  FREEMAN  PALMER  died  thirteen  years  ago. 
That  is  a  long  time  to  deliberate.  Throughout  it  I 
have  been  questioning  what  to  do  with  her  verses. 
Describing  them  in  my  Life  of  her,  I  said  they 
were  too  intimate  for  publication.  But  time  and 
circumstance  change  judgments.  To  destroy  the 
sacred  papers,  as  she  commanded,  my  hand  will 
never  move.  If  left  till  my  death,  they  will  be 
pretty  sure  to  find  their  way  into  fragmentary  and 
disordered  print.  To  me  it  belongs  to  fix  their  final 
form.  If  she  is  ever  again  to  speak  in  public,  I  must 
be  present  with  attending  care. 

In  gradually  coming  to  a  decision  on  this  per 
plexing  matter  I  have  been  much  assisted  by  a 
kind  of  jury.  Through  a  series  of  years  the  ques 
tion  of  printing  has  been  referred  to  four  college 
presidents,  four  novelists,  four  poets,  all  persons 
of  standing  and  social  experience,  half  having  no 
acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Palmer.  These,  with  a 
group  of  my  most  sensitive  friends,  have  read  the 
manuscript  entire.  On  the  whole  company  has 
been  impressed  my  desire  for  objection  rather  than 
approval.  With  but  two  possible  exceptions  all 


x  PREFACE 

have  advised  publication,  the  late  C.  E.  Norton  — 
than  whom  no  one  could  be  more  scrupulous  of 
good  taste  or  good  literature  —  being  especially 
urgent.  They  have  argued  that  there  is  too  much 
beauty  here,  too  just  and  important  an  under 
standing  of  wedded  love,  too  profound  an  exhibit 
of  a  woman  already  a  kind  of  national  figure,  to 
permit  the  book  to  be  treated  as  a  private  posses 
sion.  Following  their  judgment  —  and  my  own 
—  rather  than  my  still  reluctant  feeling,  I  now 
print  this  record  of  a  beautiful  soul.  About  the 
circumstances  in  the  composition  of  the  poems 
little  can  be  known.  What  I  know  and  what  I 
have  done  I  here  set  down. 

On  the  last  anniversary  of  our  wedding,  De 
cember  23,  1901,  Mrs.  Palmer  brought  me  a  small 
volume  of  poems  illustrated  with  photographs  of 
Boxford  scenery.  Finding  them  as  beautiful  and 
accurate  as  they  were  tender,  I  asked  if  she  were 
in  the  habit  of  writing  verse.  She  said  she  had 
never  attempted  it  until  a  few  years  before.  At 
that  time  she  was  feeling  peculiarly  the  significance 
of  marriage,  blended  as  it  always  was  in  her  mind 
with  religious  experience  and  the  enjoyment  of 
nature.  Poetry,  she  said,  had  then  seemed  a  nat 
ural  mode  of  expression.  She  had  dreamed  of  re 
cording  in  it  the  steps  through  which  two  glad 
souls  become  one,  and  through  one  another  united 


PREFACE  xi 

to  God  and  the  world.  But  time  and  power  failed 
for  the  projected  Marriage  Cycle,  and  she  could 
bring  me  only  unimportant  fragments. 

Several  times  in  the  following  year  I  returned 
to  the  subject,  venturing  praise  of  what  was  al 
ready  accomplished  and  suggesting  further  effort; 
but  I  got  meagre  and  uninterested  replies.  In  the 
next  summer  vacation,  however,  she  told  me  she 
had  special  work  at  a  certain  desk,  to  which  I  must 
never  go;  and  when  occasionally  in  those  restful 
months  I  saw  her  sitting  before  that  desk,  I  fan 
cied  her  poetic  scheme  was  advancing.  But  she 
said  nothing.  In  that  expressive  nature  there  were 
ever  depths  of  reserve. 

Accordingly  I  knew  no  more  until  her  death  in 
Paris,  December  6,  1902.  The  day  we  parted  she 
said:  "In  that  cabinet  you  will  find  a  roll  of  pa 
pers.  Burn  them.  They  are  unfinished  poems  of 
mine,  merely  sketches.  For  our  coming  wedding 
day  I  hoped  to  complete  my  Marriage  Cycle,  but 
now  — "  I  brought  them  back  with  her  ashes  to 
America.  When  I  could  find  eyes  to  read  them  I 
perceived  the  truth  and  error  of  her  words.  The 
Cycle  was  indeed  unfinished.  No  poem  had  a 
title.  Stanzas  were  begun  and  not  ended.  There 
were  lines  in  which  she  had  shut  up  and  preserved 
a  thought,  leaving  its  metrical  form  for  a  cooler 
moment.  Worse  still,  there  were  superior  and 


xii  PREFACE 

inferior  portions;  the  latter  evidently  first  drafts, 
awaiting  revision.  Yet  not  all  was  thus  incomplete. 
A  certain  number  of  poems  appeared  to  reach 
a  good  degree  of  technical  merit.  Desiring  to  test 
my  estimate,  I  printed  nine  of  the  least  personal. 
They  were  received  with  wide,  grateful,  and  criti 
cal  approval.  Subsequently  I  included  a  few  more 
in  her  published  Life. 

The  reception  of  these  selected  groups  con 
vinced  me  it  would  be  wrong  to  accept  Mrs. 
Palmer's  decision  and  destroy  writings  at  once  so 
interpretative  of  marriage  and  so  characteristic  of 
herself.  Yet  remembering  the  delicate  finish  which 
usually  distinguished  her  work,  I  was  pained  to 
preserve  papers  of  hers  in  so  ragged  a  condition. 
Could  I  myself  accomplish  the  final  revision  which 
fate  had  denied  her?  I  attempted  it.  But  besides  a 
sense  of  sacrilege  in  laying  hands  on  something  not 
my  own,  I  learned  anew  —  what  I  had  surmised 
before  —  that  nature  had  denied  me,  a  critic,  con 
structive  power  in  verse.  My  lines  were  forced  and 
clumsy,  jarring  the  neighborhood  of  her  happy 
ease.  Whatever,  therefore,  among  her  poems  was 
unfinished  must,  I  now  saw,  be  destroyed  as  she 
had  ordered.  I  could  not  fundamentally  mend;  I 
could  merely  edit.  About  fifty  of  the  poems  seemed 
to  deserve  such  editing.  These  I  have  supplied 
with  titles  and  arranged  in  three  groups;  for  as  I 


PREFACE  xiii 

studied  them,  their  underlying  plan  became  clear. 
Its  clue  was  given  in  the  phrase,  "A  Marriage 
Cycle,"  by  which  she  had  twice  described  them. 
She  wished  to  mark  the  successive  steps  through 
which  home-forming  love  passes  from  fascinated 
timidity,  through  joyous  companionship,  to  a 
trust  which  can  defy  assault  and  perplexity. 
Marriage  she  always  profoundly  honored.  She 
believed  it  essential  for  every  strong  life.  In  her 
own  she  had  gained  and  given  exceeding  happiness, 
which  at  last  pressed  for  utterance. 

Yet  while  I  feel  compelled  to  set  in  order  what  I 
found,  I  am  sorry  to  present  so  defective  a  picture 
of  a  radiant  and  bounteous  nature.  These  verses 
are  introspective  over-much,  over-much  I  mean 
for  representing  her  adequately.  She  thought  little 
about  herself,  largely  about  girls  and  women, 
public  and  business  affairs,  the  poor,  the  sick,  the 
quarrelsome,  the  organization  of  college  studies, 
the  best  persons  to  fill  places,  her  multitude  of 
friends,  and  all  the  glory  of  earth  and  sky.  Few 
persons  are  so  widely  sympathetic.  Yet  of  all  these 
eager  interests  none  has  left  its  impress  on  her 
verse  except  the  last.  Nor  does  her  buoyancy 
show,  as  it  should,  her  bohemianism  and  perpetual 
humor.  She  was  often  a  careless  gipsy.  Her  touch 
was  light,  her  glance  swift,  her  laughter  hearty. 
These  poems  give  undue  emphasis  to  her  serious 


riv  PREFACE 

and  reflective  sides.  They  are  private  and  con 
fessional  writings,  intended  for  my  eye  alone.  We 
catch  her  here  in  her  rare  moments  of  rest,  con 
sciously  assessing  the  worth  of  what  she  ordinarily 
only  accepted  and  enjoyed.  Then  too  her  longest 
periods  of  leisure  came  in  two  severe  illnesses, 
greatly  prized  by  her  as  opportunities  for  quiet, 
for  study,  and  for  writing.  There  are  poems  here 
from  both.  But  what  she  was  in  her  cheerful,  un 
reflecting,  care-filled  days,  when  she  was  brighten 
ing  the  existence  of  every  one  near  her,  one  will 
not  discover  here. 

The  veracity  of  these  poems  is  so  convincing  that 
one  might  easily  suppose  them  to  be  bare  records 
of  events.  But  they  are  more  than  that.  In  all  she 
did,  and  in  spite  of  her  marvelous  spontaneity, 
Mrs.  Palmer  was  ever  a  skillful  artist,  studious  of 
congruities,  accords,  and  seemliness.  This  appears 
in  her  poems,  where  she  often  isolates  a  bit  of  ex 
perience,  supplies  it  with  whatever  will  heighten  it, 
strips  it  of  whatever  is  accidental,  and  dares  to 
express  it  as  if  it  represented  an  actual  and  com 
plete  occurrence.  Many  of  her  papers  were  dated, 
but  I  soon  discovered  that  the  dates  had  little  rela 
tion  to  the  themes  treated.  A  poem  speaks  of  me 
as  absent  when  her  diary  shows  me  present.  Por 
tions  of  events  which  occurred  at  different  times 
are  often  united  by  some  tie  of  inner  harmony.  In 


PREFACE  xv 

short,  the  ideal  continually  shapes  the  real.  The 
feelings  displayed,  profoundly  genuine  as  they  are, 
are  not  mere  feelings  felt,  but  feelings  recollected 
and  purified.  All  these  poems  were  written  after 
she  had  passed  her  fortieth  year,  but  deal  imagina 
tively  with  much  that  was  already  long  gone  by. 

From  childhood  she  was  fond  of  verse,  and  her 
acquaintance  with  the  long  line  of  English  poets 
became  extensive  and  minute.  She  was  familiar 
with  much  of  the  earlier  poetry  which  is  now 
seldom  read.  It  was  interesting  to  see  her  hos 
pitable  yet  sure  judgment  discriminate  the  good 
from  the  middling  in  authors  with  whom  she  was 
just  becoming  acquainted.  Seldom  was  she  misled 
by  hazy  thought  or  dazzling  language.  While  not 
insensitive  to  delicate  diction,  she  sought  poetry 
for  the  most  part  in  psychological  situations  rather 
than  in  phrases,  and  counted  him,  the  best  poet 
who  showed  her  those  situations  most  accurately. 

Her  own  poems,  I  think,  express  this  austerer 
side  of  her  taste.  As  I  try  to  judge  them  coolly,  I 
believe  their  distinctive  merit  is  in  their  truthful 
ness,  their  fresh  vision,  their  freedom  from  any 
thing  like  literary  sophistication.  That  disposi 
tion  to  embroider  the  phrase  which  has  become 
dominant  in  the  verse  of  to-day,  through  the  in 
fluence  of  Keats,  Rossetti,  Tennyson,  and  Swin 
burne,  is  altogether  absent.  These  poems  are 


xvi  PREFACE 

strangely  direct,  with  no  padding  or  curiousness. 
Felicity  of  phrase  is  not  sought.  The  expression 
never  draws  attention  away  from  the  matter.  One 
gets  the  impression  that  the  thought  must  have 
been  uttered  just  so;  and  this  effect  of  inevitable- 
ness  is  heightened  by  the  swiftness  of  the  lines, 
which  are  of  unimpeded  flow  and  sing  in  the  ear 
when  ended.  Yet  the  poets  she  read  most  dur 
ing  the  years  when  these  poems  were  written 
were  chiefly  of  a  contrasted  type  —  Shakspere  in 
his  Sonnets,  Herbert  in  his  Temple,  Vaughan  in 
his  mystical  nature  pieces,  Mrs.  Browning  in  her 
Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese,  Milton  and  Donne 
and  Patmore  and  Tennyson  and  Browning  every 
where.  These  men  have  left  no  marks  on  her  style. 
Fortunately  she  loved  also  the  gay  Elizabethan 
lyrists,  with  Wordsworth  too,  and  Arnold  and 
Barnes  and  him  of  the  Dimbovitza,  and,  in  early 
years,  the  hymn- writer  Faber.  Whittier's  religious 
verse  she  counted  sacred  and  with  himself  was  on 
terms  of  intimate  friendship.  Possibly  from  these 
lucid  writers  she  may  have  had  help  in  forming  her 
style.  But  why  seek  the  influences  which  fash 
ioned  a  nature  so  slightly  imitative?  In  verse,  as 
in  all  else,  Mrs.  Palmer  created  her  own  methods, 
having  almost  a  genius  for  imparting  to  others  her 
ardent  and  generous  feelings.  Something  of  that 
genius  appears  in  these  poems.  If  not  great,  they 


PREFACE  xvii 

possess,  I  believe,  a  dignity,  naturalness,  and  ap 
pealing  power  unlike  anything  else.  Her  friends 
will  prize  them  because  here  they  will  once  more 
find  Mrs.  Palmer  engaged  in  her  magical  art  of 
transmuting  our  usual  and  necessary  experiences 
into  occasions  of  wonder,  romance,  and  gladness. 
GEORGE  HERBERT  PALMER. 

BOXFORD, 

July  16,  1916. 


THE    APPROACH 


THE  BIRTH-DAY 

THE  day  he  stood  before  my  door, 

The  sunlight  playing  on  his  brow, 
Upon  his  face  I  saw  such  power 

As  I  had  never  known  till  now. 
Into  my  eyes  he  looked  that  day. 

My  heart  leaped  up;  I  gave  my  hand; 
But  found  no  words  my  lips  could  say 

That  he  might  understand. 

We  wandered  by  a  woodland  stream, 

And  all  our  talk  ran  fresh  and  free 
That  happy  day.  Yet  in  a  dream 

The  woods  and  fields  I  could  not  see. 
I  heard  the  brook  beside  me  run, 

I  saw  far  off  a  mountain  shine, 
I  felt  the  good  warmth  of  the  sun  — 

Ah,  day  that  made  the  world  divine? 


FORBIDDEN 

I  TOLD  him  not  to  come 

To  meet  and  bring  me  home. 

But  yet,  as  the  long  day 

Wore  empty,  dull,  away, 

Though  I  had  sternly  said  him  Nay, 

I  feared,  half  hoped,  that  he  would  disobey. 

"He  will  not  come,"  I  said  it  o'er  and  o'er; 
He  knows  I  do  not  wish  it.  Nay,  even  more, 
I  shall  be  angry  if  he  comes  to-night. 
He  is  not  here;  how  glad  I  am!  How  right! 
But  who  stands  smiling  in  that  sudden  light? 
Or  do  my  happy  tears  make  dim  my  sight? 


HESITATION 

AH,  June,  what  hast  thou  brought  me? 

Great  June,  what  hast  thou  taught  me? 

(Still,  still,  my  heart ! 

Here  we  two  part.) 

We  walked  through  meadows, 
Under  cloud-shadows, 
Past  college  towers, 
In  golden  hours, 
Finding  June  flowers, 
Singing  over  and  over, 
"First  daisies  and  clover!" 

(Rest,  my  heart,  rest! 
Old  ways  of  life  are  best.) 

Wait,  wait,  dark  river, 

Flowing  forever ! 

Not  far  is  the  sea 

WThere  you  soon  must  be. 
Wait  here  beneath  the  trees, 
Fanned  by  the  soft  night  breeze. 


HESITATION 

Hear  how  his  tender  words 
Sing  in  the  dark  like  birds. 
See  how  the  stars  look  down 
As  he  bends  low  to  crown 
My  forehead  and  my  hair,  — 
A  crown  no  queen  may  wear! 
(No,  no,  my  heart! 
Tears  must  not  start.) 


THE  HEALING  POOL 

AH,  how  good 

Is  the  heart  of  the  wood ! 

Here  to  lie, 

Great  clouds  sailing  by ! 

From  the  world's  restless  mood 

Free  at  last  in  the  deep  solitude ! 

While  only  the  birds  are  awake, 

And  no  breeze  moves  the  still  woodland  lake. 

As  it  lies  in  its  broad  silence  sleeping, 

The  green  hills  their  faithful  watch  keeping. 

Smooth  lake,  fold  me  in  to  your  breast, 

In  your  arms  let  me  rest! 

Let  me  find  where  your  lily-buds  grow, 

How  they  come  to  be  whiter  than  snow; 

Your  life-giving  touch  let  me  feel; 

Your  secret  of  peace,  oh,  reveal 

To  my  hungry  and  feverish  soul, 

Till  your  gladness  and  calm  make  me  whole. 


THE    HEALING    POOL 

Fresh  and  strong  from  your  arms  I  arise 
As  if  God  himself  touched  my  eyes, 
And  I  saw  all  things  new,  and  again 
Were  free  from  life's  fever  and  pain. 
Can  it  be  that  the  angels  still  lead 
To  this  great  pool  of  healing  in  need, 
With  only  the  sun  and  the  bird 
To  tell  when  its  waters  are  stirred? 


THE  SURRENDER 

0  LITTLE  green  leaves, 

You  tremble  so! 
You  glitter  and  shine 

When  soft  winds  blow, 
When  the  sun  rides  high 
In  the  blue  June  sky. 

But  little  green  leaves 
You  haunt  my  dreams, 
You  and  laughing  streams 

Running  swift  through  my  sleep. 
You  call  in  my  breast, 
You  break  my  rest. 

For  my  heart  is  awake, 

And  it  trembles  so! 
But  with  gladder  amaze 

Than  the  green  leaves  know. 
For  he  whom  all  praise 

Has  made  love  grow. 


10  THE   SURRENDER 

So,  like  little  green  leaves 
On  a  mountain  side, 

Like  a  bubbling  spring 
That  cannot  bide, 

I  tremble  and  sing, 
The  world  is  so  wide. 

For  my  heart  is  in  Spring 
And  he  is  its  sun. 

He  is  lord  of  my  world, 
And  new  life  has  begun. 

Take  the  sceptre,  my  king! 
All  I  am  you  have  won. 


THE  SINGING  HEART 

I  WONDER  why  I  am  so  glad  to-day ! 
My  friends  have  gone  away  — 
Some  to  the  country,  some  to  the  salt  sea, 
Some  to  the  mountains,  — 
All  are  gone  from  me. 
And  some  are  sick  and  some  are  very  sad, 
And  yet  I  am  so  glad! 

Why  should  I  feel  so  glad  and  well  and  strong? 
Sickness  has  left  me  weak,  and  pain  for  long 
Has  kept  me  silent,  constant  company. 
But  now  my  heart  is  singing  joyously; 
No  task  would  be  too  heavy,  no  pain  bad 
To-day,  I  am  so  glad! 

Why  is  the  world  so  sweet  and  fair  just  now? 
Men  stagger  to  their  work  with  aching  brow, 
The  little  children  gasp  in  the  foul  street, 
The  great  tired  city  throbs  with  parching  heat; 
Yet  I  can  drink  cool  winds  from  far  away, 
I  am  so  glad  to-day ! 


12  THE    SINGING    HEART 

Can  I  be  lonely,  sick,  or  sad  again? 
I  will  go  out  to  heal  my  brother's  pain, 
To  help  and  succor  in  the  world's  distress; 
So  blest,  great  Love,  by  thee,  I  too  will  bless, 
And  in  dark  days  to  come  will  think  alway 
How  glad  I  was  to-day ! 


THE  PICTURE 

BELOVED  eyes,  beloved  eyes! 

Light  of  clear  skies ! 

How  steady  and  serene 

Their  lifted  gaze 

Comes  from  this  pictured  face, 

Full  of  all  manly  grace ! 

So  has  it  ever  been 

When  with  a  light  divine 

These  eyes  smiled  into  mine. 

Ah,  beautiful  and  true 
Brow,  eyes,  and  lips  of  you! 
I  bend  to  touch  your  hair, 
But  leave  a  kiss  and  prayer. 
I  gaze  and  gaze  again, 
And  ease  my  heart  of  pain. 
O  dearest,  not  in  vain 
The  struggles  of  past  years, 
The  bitter  cost  of  tears! 


14  THE    PICTURE 

Deep  eyes,  great  heart, 
Immortal  joy  thou  art. 
These  eyes  see  all  things  new, 
These  lips  speak  ever  true. 
In  this  strong  face  there  grew 
And  triumphed  noble  love, 
And  living  faith  to  move 
Mountains  from  out  the  way 
Of  feet  that,  stumbling,  stray. 

I  lay  this  cheek  on  mine 
And  all  myself  resign, 
Remembering  other  days 
When,  walking  separate  ways, 
We  still  sought  God  to  praise. 
To-day  with  hearts  aglow, 
Yet  hushed,  we  surely  know 
These  ways  of  God  are  best 
In  which,  each  lost  in  each,  we  find  our 
happy  rest. 


MEETING 

ONE  day  we  gave  each  other,  one  more  day. 
In  the  hot  city  streets  we  found  a  way 
To  meet,  and  listen  to  the  roar  and  din, 
And  know  we  two  sat  safely  folded  in. 

The  poets  brought  us  their  grave,  chastening  word, 
Brought  murmurs  of  the  river,  breeze  and  bird; 
Till  a  strange  gladness  rested  in  the  heart, 
Of  all  our  coming  years  to  be  a  part. 

And  he  had  changed.  Through  days  of  absence  still 

More  masterful  and  tender;  steady  will 

Ruled  all  his  face,  and  love  looked  through  his 

eyes, 
And  noble  speech  grew  freer  and  more  wise. 

Oh,  more  than  conqueror  he  seemed  that  day! 
He  stood  beside  me,  turned,  and  went  away. 
Then  I  knelt  down,  and  for  his  sake  I  prayed 
To  meet  our  future  glad  and  unafraid. 


PARTING 

DEAR  LOVE,  it  was  so  hard  to  say 

Good  bye  to-day! 

You  turned  to  go,  yet  going  turned  to  stay! 
Till  suddenly  at  last  you  went  away. 

Then  all  at  last  I  found  my  love  unsaid, 

And  bowed  my  head; 
And  went  in  tears  up  to  my  lonely  bed. 
Oh,  would  it  be  like  this  if  you  were  dead? 


THE   DRESS 

THIS  is  the  dress  I  wore, 

This  is  the  jewel  too. 
Let  me  put  them  on  again, 

Thinking  of  you. 

You  liked  the  dress,  you  said. 

Here  on  the  sleeve 
You  laid  a  light  caress. 

Can  you  believe 

The  little  dress  will  ever 

That  touch  let  go? 
The  jewel  cease  to  mirror 

Two  eyes  I  know? 

So  I  put  them  on  again 

First  since  that  day 
When  you  bent  and  said  Good  bye, 

And  went  away. 


THE  PATIENCE  OF  HOPE 

AGAIN  to-night  I  saw  the  thin  young  moon. 
And  shall  I  ask  of  her  a  blessed  boon? 

Come  soon,  my  Love,  come  soon! 

The  west  was  brilliant  with  the  sunset  glow. 
How  often  have  we  stood  and  watched  it  so! 
We  know,  dear  heart,  we  know. 

Oh,  but  the  world  is  wonderful  and  fair, 
And  it  is  hard  to  miss  you  anywhere. 
Not  here,  my  own,  nor  there. 

I  want  you  in  this  summer  night's  low  noise, 
And  when  the  day  cries  with  tumultuous  voice 
Rejoice,  glad  soul,  rejoice! 

But  we  can  walk  apart  our  separate  ways, 
And  will  not  even  ask  our  Day  of  Days, 

But  only  sing  and  praise. 

Ah  yes!  Give  constant  praise. 


BEFORE  THE  WEDDING 

"THE  shining  heights  are  calling,  dear. 
The  sky  is  blue,  the  air  is  clear 
Where  the  steep  mountains  rise  afar 
And  all  the  beckoning  angels  are. 
There  we  will  climb  together,  gay; 
The  road  winds  uphill  all  the  way." 

"But  it  is  good  here,  —  Is't  not  so?  — 
Here  where  the  opening  lilies  blow; 
Here  in  the  valley,  safe  from  harm, 
Here  bound  by  love's  still  sheltered  charm; 
Here  where  the  golden  fruit  hangs  near, 
Here  where  your  eyes  bend  close  and  clear." 

"Nay,  come!  Fear  cannot  reach  our  heart. 
We  know  we  shall  not  walk  apart. 
On  to  the  heights  together  we 
Will  follow  Love  wherever  he 
May  lead  us,  knowing  only  this,  — 
Service  and  joy  we  cannot  miss." 


THE  WEDDING  SONG 

MY  radiant  great  day, 
How  beautiful  thou  art! 
How  dost  thou  fill  my  heart! 
Darkness  has  passed  away. 

The  earth  shines  like  a  star, 
The  sky  is  heaven's  own  blue. 
Thou  hast  made  all  things  new, 
Thou,  in  whose  hands  we  are. 

New  earth  and  a  new  heaven, 
New  sunshine  after  rain, 
New  peace,  new  joy,  new  gain  — 
New  life  to  us  is  given. 


TOGETHER 


BOXFORD 

OUT  of  the  roar  and  din, 

Safely  shut  in. 
Out  of  the  seething  street, 

Silence  to  meet. 

Out  of  the  hurrying  hours, 

To  lie  in  flowers; 
Far  from  the  toil  and  strife 

To  find  our  life. 

Ah,  let  the  world  forget! 

Here  we  have  met. 
Most  in  this  sacred  place 

I  see  thy  face. 


ATTAINMENT 

THE  perfect  summer  day  is  at  its  height, 
And  at  its  height  this  hushed  and  restful  time. 

The  fair  full  moon  will  rule  the  heaven  to-night; 
And  our  great  love  has  triumphed  in  its  prime. 

Perfect  the  day,  the  night,  the  week,  the  year. 

Nature  stands  smiling,  not  a  cloud  on  high, 
And  sees  a  perfect  love  that  casts  out  fear 

Facing  the  future  without  wish  or  cry. 

Great  love  has  triumphed.  At  a  crisis  hour 
Of  strength  and  struggle  on  the  heights  of  life 

He  came,  and  bidding  me  abandon  power, 
Called  me  to  take  the  quiet  name  of  wife. 

My  God,  I  thank  thee  for  a  home  so  fair, 
Full  of  all  beauty,  peace,  and  mystery; 

But  most  of  all,  for  him  who  led  me  there 
Through  utmost  sacrifice,  and  so  to  thee. 


THE   BUTTERFLY 

I  HOLD  you  at  last  in  my  hand, 

Exquisite  child  of  the  air. 
Can  I  ever  understand 

How  you  grew  to  be  so  fair? 

You  came  to  my  linden  tree 
To  taste  its  delicious  sweet, 

I  sitting  here  in  the  shadow  and  shine 
Playing  around  its  feet. 

Now  I  hold  you  fast  in  my  hand, 

You  marvelous  butterfly, 
Till  you  help  me  to  understand 

The  eternal  mystery. 

From  that  creeping  thing  in  the  dust 
To  this  shining  bliss  in  the  blue! 

God  give  me  courage  to  trust * 
I  can  break  my  chrysalis  too! 


THE  PRESENT  HEAVEN 

I  LIE  and  watch  the  great  white  clouds  drift  by. 
As  far  above  the  earth  as  Heaven  is  high. 
"How  far  is  Heaven?"  I  cry. 

"As  far  as  east  is  from  the  west,  so  far 
Hath  he  removed"  —  Can  any  sun  or  star 
Measure  that  space  afar? 

But  I  know  well  that  Heaven  is  near  to-day, 
And  all  the  world  is  fair  and  fresh  as  May. 
My  heart 's  a  child  at  play. 

For  love  floods  all  my  life,  like  a  great  sea. 
Dear  God,  does  Heaven  hold  more  than  this  for 
me, 

Peace  deeper,  joy  more  free? 


A  SONG 

A  THOUSAND  birds  are  mad  with  joy, 

The  apple  trees  are  white, 
The  little  brook  runs  like  a  rollicking  boy 

At  play  with  the  shadows  and  light. 
The  trees  of  the  field  clap  their  hands  with  bliss 
As  they  tremble  and  shine  in  the  sun's  hot  kiss. 

We  two  on  the  green  hillside 

Sit  through  the  still  afternoon. 
Was  ever  our  love  so  deep  and  wide? 

Did  the  sun  ever  set  so  soon? 
And  yet  we  welcome  the  oncoming  night, 
Bringing  with  darkness  still  deeper  delight. 


BEFORE  THE  MOWING 

NEVER  a  sunny  morning 
Fuller  of  bliss. 
Never  gladder  faces 
Felt  the  sun's  warm  kiss 
Than  my  meadow  blossoms, 
Dreaming  not  of  this. 

Wild  roses  beckoned 

All  along  the  Run; 

Hardback  and  meadow-rue 

Sang,  "The  night  is  done!" 

All  the  grasses  waved  their  hands 

And  welcomed  back  the  sun. 

Daisies  and  clovers 

Nestled  side  by  side; 

Buttercups  and  black-eyed  Susans 

Tossed  their  heads  in  pride; 

And  a  tall  field  lily 

Looked  at  me  and  sighed. 


BEFORE    THE   MOWING  29 

Ah!  my  meadow  grasses, 
How  your  breath  is  sweet! 
How  you  shelter  happy  homes 
Safe  around  your  feet! 
How  you  shine,  relentless  death 
Suddenly  to  meet! 


SUMMER  RAIN 

STAND  with  me  here, 
My  very  dear! 

Watch  the  swift  armies  of  the  summer  rain 
Sweep  the  tall  grasses  of  the  Park, 
Changing  our  shining  noonday  into  dark. 
Hear  the  loud  thunder  roar,  again,  again, 
And  roll  and  triumph  in  the  summer  rain. 

The  little  birds  all  hide, 
The  cattle,  wandering  wide, 
Seek  the  safe  shelter  of  a  spreading  tree. 
The  old  dog  crouches  by  his  master's  feet. 
Dark  clouds  come  on,  an  army  strong  and  fleet. 
Crash  follows  crash,  all  things  to  covert  flee; 
And  wind  and  lightning  drive  me  —  close  to  thee. 


SUNSET 

I  SAW  the  round  flat  sun  to-night 

Sink  slowly  to  the  west, 
A  shining  disc  of  light. 

In  crimson,  purple,  gold, 
The  languid  clouds  unrolled 

And  made  his  coming  blest. 
The  gates  of  glory  lifted  up  their  head 
And  welcomed  him  as  to  a  bridal  bed, 
While  all  the  green  world  smiled  his  face  to  see; 
But  he  looked  only  on  my  love  and  me. 


NIGHTFALL 

THE  dear,  long,  quiet  summer  day 

Draws  to  its  close. 
To  the  deep  woods  I  steal  away 
To  hear  what  the  sweet  thrush  will  say 

In  her  repose. 

Beside  the  brook  the  meadow-rue 

Stands  tall  and  white. 
The  water  softly  slips  along, 
A  murmur  to  the  thrush's  song, 

To  greet  the  night. 

Over  and  over,  like  a  bell, 

Her  song  rings  clear; 
The  trees  stand  still  in  joy  and  prayer, 
Only  the  angels  stir  the  air, 

High  heaven  bends  near. 

I  bow  my  head,  and  lift  my  heart 

In  thy  great  peace; 
Thy  Angelus,  my  God,  I  heed, 
By  the  still  waters  wilt  thou  lead 

Till  days  shall  cease. 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  WORLD 

O  SUMMER  night  beside  the  soundless  sea, 
O  golden  hour  for  my  dear  Love  and  me! 
The  past,  the  future,  are  at  one  in  thee! 

Before  us  is  the  moonrise  full  and  bright, 
Its  pathway  on  the  waves  is  radiant  light; 
Behind,  the  sunset  fading  into  night. 

0  witching  world,  with  beauty  never  guessed! 
Light  of  the  east,  dead  splendors  of  the  west, 

1  lock  you  fast  forever  in  my  breast. 

I  know  your  wondrous  meaning;  for  one  stands 
Beside  me,  at  the  touch  of  whose  dear  hands 
My  whole  heart  leaps  to  life  and  understands. 


A  SPRING  JOURNEY 

WE  journeyed  through  broad  woodland  ways, 

My  Love  and  I. 
The  maples  set  the  shining  fields  ablaze. 

The  blue  May  sky 

Brought  to  us  its  great  Spring  surprise; 
While  we  saw  all  things  through  each  other's  eyes* 

And  sometimes  from  a  steep  hillside 

Shone  fair  and  bright 
The  shadbush,  like  a  young  June  bride, 

Fresh  clothed  in  white. 

Sometimes  came  glimpses  glad  of  the  blue  sea; 
But  I  smiled  only  on  my  Love;  he  smiled  on  me. 

The  violets  made  a  field  one  mass  of  blue  — 

Even  bluer  than  the  sky; 
The  little  brook  took  on  that  color  too, 

And  sang  more  merrily. 
"Your  dress  is  blue,"  he  laughing  said.    "Your 

eyes," 
My  heart  sang,  "sweeter  than  the  bending  skies." 


A   SPRING  JOURNEY  35 

We  spoke  of  poets  dead  so  long  ago, 

And  their  wise  words; 
We  glanced  at  apple  trees,  like  drifted  snow; 

We  watched  the  nesting  birds,  — 
Only  a  moment!  Ah,  how  short  the  day! 
Yet  all  the  winters  cannot  blow  its  sweetness 
quite  away. 


MYSELF 

OH,  to  be  alone! 
To  escape  from  the  work,  the  play, 

The  talking  every  day! 
To  escape  from  all  I  have  done 
And  all  that  remains  to  do! 
To  escape,  —  yes,  even  from  you, 

My  only  Love,  —  and  be 

Alone  and  free! 

Could  I  only  stand 
Beneath  pale  moon  and  gray  sky, 
Where  the  winds  and  the  sea-gulls  cry. 

And  no  man  is  at  hand, 
And  feel  the  free  air  blow 
On  my  rain-wet  face,  and  know 
I  am  free,  —  not  yours,  but  my  own,  — 

Free  and  alone! 

For  the  soft  firelight 
And  the  home  of  your  heart,  my  dear, 


MYSELF  37 

They  hurt,  being  always  here. 

I  want  to  stand  upright 
And  to  cool  my  eyes  in  the  air, 
And  to  see  how  my  back  can  bear 

Burdens,  —  to  try,  to  know, 

To  learn,  to  grow. 

I  am  only  you. 

I  am  yours,  part  of  you,  your  wife, 
And  I  have  no  other  life. 

I  cannot  think,  cannot  do; 
I  cannot  breathe,  cannot  see; 
There  is  "us,"  but  there  is  not  "me." 
And  worst,  at  your  touch  I  grow 

Contented  so! 


THE  OPPORTUNITY  MISSED 

I  SIT,  beloved,  here  alone, 

Setting  my  stitches  one  by  one, 

Glad  that  a  woman's  needle  takes 

The  golden  thread  when  her  heart  aches. 

My  shining  silk  flies  fast  to-night; 
The  growing  flowers  catch  the  light, 
And  smile  and  glow  as  if  they  knew 
How  every  touch  brings  thoughts  of  you. 

All  day  I  felt  you  very  near; 
Your  step,  your  voice,  was  in  my  ear. 
And  when  at  last  I  heard  you  call, 
The  hungry  tears  would  rise  and  fall. 

I  meant  to  be  so  brave  and  strong, 
And  change  your  burden  into  song; 
But  yet,  —  but  yet  —  you  went  away 
With  all  unsaid  I  longed  to  say. 


THE    OPPORTUNITY    MISSED  39 

Forgive  my  restless,  beating  heart, 
My  trembling  hands,  my  unskilled  art; 
And  let  me  hope,  dear  one,  I  may 
Be  calm,  glad,  unreserved  some  day. 


IN  THE  VALLEY 

YEA,  when  he  leadeth  me,  — 

And  he  does  lead  — 
Each  valley  of  the  shadow 

Turns  to  flowery  mead. 
He  feedeth  me  in  pastures  green, 
And  all  the  waters  are  serene. 

From  each  valley  of  the  shadow 

I  still  lift  my  eyes 
To  the  mountains  roundabout, 

And  the  glad  sunrise. 
My  help  cometh  sure  and  soon; 
Shadows  change  to  shining  noon. 

In  each  valley,  through  each  shadow, 

One  walks  all  the  way 
Close  beside  me,  strong  and  steady; 

In  his  eyes  my  day 
Brightens  out  of  darkest  night. 
Love  gives  all  my  life  its  light. 


A  DREAM 

ALL  night  the  wind  blew  through  my  hair, 
All  night  I  felt  the  salt  sea  air 

On  lips  and  cheek. 
I  flew  as  the  swift  swallows  fly, 
I  reached  my  hands  out  with  a  cry 

Your  hand  to  seek. 

Then  side  by  side  we  sped  along. 
How  blue  the  sea,  how  shrill  the  song 

The  wind  made  in  the  grass! 
How  dark  the  cedars  on  the  hill, 
How  tall  that  far-off  spire,  how  still 

The  graves  we  passed! 

Ah,  if  indeed  we  two  might  ride 
Always  together,  side  by  side, 

In  silence  and  content, 
The  night  would  be  as  bright  as  day, 
I  should  be  rested,  brave,  and  gay, 

Whatever  way  we  went. 


DAYS  AND  YEARS 

WAS  it  yesterday,  my  dear, 
That  your  voice  was  in  my  ear, 
Steady,  comforting,  and  clear? 

Only  twenty-four  short  hours? 
Did  we  sit  among  the  flowers? 
Has  Paradise  itself  such  bowers? 

Were  we  resting  side  by  side? 

Look  now  in  my  eyes,  my  shining-eyed! 

Ah,  God!  The  world  is  wide. 


THE   TIES   OF  SEPARATION 

WE  say  few  words  when  we  sit  together, 
Hands  locked  in  hands  and  shining  eyes. 

We  write  few  verses  in  sunny  weather, 
When  earth  laughs  back  to  glittering  skies. 

But  when  the  clouds  are  heavy  above  us, 
And  miles  stretch  wide  while  we  sit  alone; 

Our  hearts  cry  aloud  to  hearts  that  love  us, 
And  pain  sobs  out  its  long  undertone. 

If  we  never  were  parted  nor  grew  so  tired, 
Never  were  shut  from  touch  or  speech, 

Our  poets  would  stand  dumb,  uninspired, 
And  God's  best  gifts  be  out  of  reach. 

So  we  bless  his  wisdom  in  giving  and  taking, 
And  we  sing  although  clouds  hide  the  sun; 

We  bring  our  thirst  to  his  fountain  for  slaking: 
Through  doing  his  will  our  will  too  is  done. 


THE  POETS 

THESE  are  the  poems  he  loves, 
These  are  the  books  he  has  read; 

I  turn  them  over  and  over, 
I  lay  them  under  my  head. 

Poems  of  love  and  of  sorrow, 
Of  hope,  of  parting,  of  pain, 

But  of  love  that  knew  no  measure; 
I  read  them  again  and  again. 

Ah  dear,  if  I  were  a  poet, 

I  would  show  you  a  woman's  heart; 
And  you  should  be  king  in  a  country 

Where  lovers  never  can  part. 


HALLOWED  PLACES 

I  PASS  my  days  among  the  quiet  places 

Made  sacred  by  your  feet. 
The  air  is  cool  in  the  fresh  woodland  spaces, 

The  meadows  very  sweet. 

The  sunset  fills  the  wide  sky  with  its  splendor, 
The  glad  birds  greet  the  night; 

I  stop  and  listen  for  a  voice  strong,  tender, 
I  wait  those  dear  eyes'  light. 

You  are  the  heart  of  every  gleam  of  glory, 

Your  presence  fills  the  air, 
About  you  gathers  all  the  fair  year's  story; 

I  read  you  everywhere. 


HOARDED  GOLD 

JUST  as  a  miser  hoards  and  counts  his  gold, 

So  I  my  treasures,  full  of  bliss  untold. 

I  think  their  touch  would  thaw  away  death's  cold. 

This  fern-leaf  grew  in  a  deserted  place 
Where  once  a  house  stood.   For  a  little  space 
He  held  my  hand.  That  is  my  fount  of  grace. 

These  withered  leaves  —  just  two  —  were  in  the 

wood 

Where  we  two  in  the  mist  and  rain  still  stood 
And  unclasped  hands  to  go.  But  God  is  good. 

These  dry  sweet  bay  leaves  grew  beside  the  sea. 
I  keep  their  fragrant  breath  ever  with  me 
Because  one  day  we  were  so  glad  and  free. 

He  smiled  to  see  this  wild  rose  in  my  dress. 
That  smile  was  like  a  yearning  brief  caress. 
So  all  wild  roses  to  my  lips  I  press. 


HOARDED    GOLD  47 

Here  is  a  clover  blossom,  faded  red. 
It  grew  among  the  grasses  at  his  head 
While  on  the  river  bank  he  lay  and  read. 

A  piece  of  laurel?  How  the  mountains  rise! 
How  stern  the  landscape  and  how  wild  the  skies! 
Bend  down,  my  hero!  Let  me  see  your  eyes! 

Through  the  dim  woods  we  rode  one  summer  day; 
He  kissed  me  softly  there  beside  the  spray 
Where  grew  this  golden  flower  I  keep  alway. 

Dear  flowers,  you  have  my  sacred  story  told. 
I  never  can  grow  weary,  poor,  or  old. 
Richer  than  all  the  misers  with  their  gold! 


UNTROUBLED 

BY  the  river 
Hurrying  ever, 

We  walk  peaceful  while  the  waters  roar  and  hiss, 
Our  low  voices 
Still  earth's  noises; 

Heaven  is  this. 

In  my  verses 
Love  rehearses 

All  the  changes  as  the  day  draws  to  its  close. 
The  dim  twilight 
Turns  to  starlight; 

So  love  glows. 

In  the  splendor, 
Deep  and  tender, 

Flooding  the  wide  glory  of  the  west, 
Hushed  I  meet  you, 
Touch  and  greet  you, 
O  my  best! 


DECEMBER 

ONLY  half  a  year  ago,  Love, 

Did  we  pass  this  way? 
Now  the  ground  is  white  with  snowdrifts. 

Chill  the  clouds  and  gray. 

Then  the  river  wandered  softly 

Onward  to  the  sea; 
All  the  green  world  sang  in  chorus 

Just  for  you  and  me. 

Full  of  light  and  sound  and  fragrance,. 

Night  shone  more  than  day; 
Till  we  held  our  breaths  in  rapture, 

And  in  silence  lay. 

Now  the  earth  is  cold  and  lifeless 

All  the  trees  are  bare; 
Only  now  and  then  a  snowflake 

Wanders  through  the  air. 


50  DECEMBER 

But  your  hand  sweeps  all  my  heartstrings 

To  a  joyful  tune; 
In  the  world  it  may  be  winter, 

In  my  life  't  is  June. 

So  in  meeting  or  in  parting, 

Winter  time  or  Spring, 
You  still  fill  my  life  with  beauty, 

Teach  my  days  to  sing. 


A   COMMUNION    HYMN 

How  sweet  and  silent  is  the  place, 

My  God,  alone  with  thee! 
Awaiting  here  thy  touch  of  grace, 

Thy  heavenly  mystery. 

So  many  ways  thou  hast,  dear  Lord, 

My  longing  heart  to  fill: 
Thy  lovely  world,  thy  spoken  word, 

The  doing  thy  sweet  will. 

Giving  thy  children  living  bread, 
Leading  thy  weak  ones  on, 

The  touch  of  dear  hands  on  my  head, 
The  thought  of  loved  ones  gone. 

Lead  me  by  many  paths,  dear  Lord, 

But  always  in  thy  way, 
And  let  me  make  my  earth  a  Heaven 

Till  next  Communion  Day. 


THE    PARTING 


RESTING 

TO-NIGHT  I  was  so  tired,  dear. 

Then  you  sat  down  beside  me  here; 
In  the  still,  fragrant  dusk  you  took  my  hand. 

We  found  no  words  to  speak, 

But  rested  cheek  on  cheek, 
In  the  deep  peace  two  hearts  can  understand. 

The  week  had  been  too  long; 

Its  duties,  swift  and  strong, 
Swept  through  the  days  and  nights,  —  and  you 
away. 

With  you,  life's  tide  came  in; 

The  loud  world's  strife  and  din 
Hushed  quickly,  and  my  heart  grew  strong  and  gay. 

Violets  and  roses  red 

Breathed  sweetness  near  your  head; 
But  sweeter,  nearer,  eyes  and  hands  of  you! 

So  I  rose  comforted, 

Spirit  serene,  full-fed, 
Fitted  again  for  work  I  still  must  do. 


SUFFOCATION 

I  CANNOT  bear  your  violin  to-night, 

It  sobs  and  wails  with  pain. 
Down  the  piano-keys  the  tears  drop  light. 

Put  out  the  lamps  again. 

Some  moments  come  when  poetry  and  song 

Are  far  too  sad  for  me; 
When  music's  chords  beat  on  my  heart  too  strong, 

I  cannot  breathe  or  see. 

Let  me  go  out  under  the  steadfast  stars, 

So  many  and  so  still, 
And  soothe  my  spirit  beating  on  its  bars, 

And  think  on  Heaven's  high  will. 

Night  unto  night,  dear  God,  thy  glory  tells, 

Thy  stars  together  sing; 
Such  music  all  my  heart  with  rapture  swells, 

As  black  buds  swell  in  Spring. 


ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  GRIEF 

I  SAID  to  Pain,  "I  will  not  have  thee  here! 
The  nights  are  weary  and  the  days  are  drear 

In  thy  hard  company." 
He  clasped  me  close  and  held  me  still  so  long 
I  learned  how  deep  his  voice,  how  sweet  his  song, 

How  far  his  eyes  can  see. 


COMPANIONSHIP 

IN  the  long  watches  of  the  summer  night 

I  do  not  wake  alone. 
In  the  dark  silence  and  the  strange  moonlight 

I  will  not  cry  or  moan. 
I  will  lie  still  beneath  the  fire  of  pain; 
All  the  long  torture  shall  not  be  in  vain. 

One  watches  here  beside  me  where  I  lie 
And  long  for  the  sunrise. 

The  chair  is  empty,  and  no  form  is  nigh; 
Unseen  by  other  eyes, 

Yet  with  the  touch  of  healing  in  his  hands, 

And  tender  smile,  love  waits  and  understands. 

I  will  not  shrink  away  nor  dread  the  knife, 
But  gladly  bear  my  part. 

Love  is,  and  ever  shall  be,  lord  of  life; 
Love  rules  my  happy  heart. 

Pain  vanishes,  and  death  is  vanquished  still; 

Since  love  and  life  are  one,  how  can  death  kill? 


THE  VISION 

DEAR  LOVE,  you  came  to  me  in  dreams  last  night; 
In  the  still  darkness  suddenly  a  light! 
And  when  I  swept  away  the  tears  to  see, 
The  light  was  your  calm  face,  smiling  on  me. 

"Dear,  are  you  resting?"  tenderly  you  said, 
"And  are  you  happy?"   When  I  turned  my  head, 
You  saw  the  tears,  and  to  me  quickly  stepped, 
Knelt,  laid  your  face  by  mine;  and  then  I  slept. 


THE  TEMPEST 

*HE  shall  give  his  angels  charge 

Over  thee  in  all  thy  ways." 
Though  the  thunders  roam  at  large, 
Though  the  lightning  round  me  plays, 
Like  a  child  I  lay  my  head 
In  sweet  sleep  upon  my  bed. 

Though  the  terror  come  so  close, 

It  shall  have  no  power  to  smite; 
It  shall  deepen  my  repose, 
Turn  the  darkness  into  light. 

Touch  of  angels'  hands  is  sweet; 
Not  a  stone  shall  hurt  my  feet. 

All  thy  waves  and  billows  go 
Over  me  to  press  me  down 
Into  arms  so  strong  I  know 
They  will  never  let  me  drown. 

Ah,  my  God,  how  good  thy  will! 
I  will  nestle  and  be  still. 


THE  CRISIS 

OUT  of  the  depths,  O  Lord, 
Out  of  the  grasp  of  pain, 

According  to  thy  word, 
Thou  raisest  me  again. 

Even  as  my  day,  my  strength! 

From  sharpest  agony 
Thou  givest  calm  at  length. 

What  must  thy  Heaven  be? 

Oh  may  I,  when  my  breath 
Fails,  and  death's  last  alarms 

Confuse,  find  underneath 
The  everlasting  arms! 


ON  A  GLOOMY  EASTER 

I  HEAR  the  robins  singing  in  the  rain. 
The  longed-for  Spring  is  hushed  so  drearily 
That  hungry  lips  cry  often  wearily, 

"Oh,  if  the  blessed  sun  would  shine  again!" 

I  hear  the  robins  singing  in  the  rain. 

The  misty  world  lies  waiting  for  the  dawn; 

The  wind  sobs  at  my  window  and  is  gone, 
And  in  the  silence  come  old  throbs  of  pain. 

But  still  the  robins  sing  on  in  the  rain, 
Not  waiting  for  the  morning  sun  to  break, 
Nor  listening  for  the  violets  to  wake, 

Nor  fearing  lest  the  snow  may  fall  again. 

My  heart  sings  with  the  robins  in  the  rain, 
For  I  remember  it  is  Easter  morn, 
And  life  and  love  and  peace  are  all  new  born, 

And  joy  has  triumphed  over  loss  and  pain. 


ON    A    GLOOMY    EASTER  63 

Sing  on,  brave  robins,  sing  on  in  the  rain! 

You  know  behind  the  clouds  the  sun   must 
shine, 

You  know  that  death  means  only  life  divine 
And  all  our  losses  turn  to  heavenly  gain. 

I  lie  and  listen  to  you  in  the  rain. 

Better  than  Easter  bells  that  do  not  cease, 
Your  message  from  the  heart  of  God's  great 
peace, 

And  to  his  arms  I  turn  and  sleep  again. 


THE  CURE 

AH,  yes!  Now  I  can  sleep, 

And  all  is  going  well. 
I've  seen  his  eyes;  they  keep 

Their  old-time  magic  spell. 

Take  medicines  away, 
And  raise  the  curtain  too! 

How  glorious  the  day! 

And  oh  the  sky,  how  blue! 

I  hear  a  little  lass 

Laugh  out  down  in  the  street. 
How  many  people  pass ! 

How  merry  sound  their  feet! 

This  is  a  sacred  day, 
The  far-off  hills  I  see; 

I  smell  the  fresh-cut  hay; 
I  hear  the  river's  glee. 


THE    CURE  65 


My  hand  in  his  hand  lies. 

How  safe  I  feel  and  strong! 
A  mist  is  in  my  eyes, 

My  heart  is  full  of  song. 


ASSURANCE 

TO-DAY  he  took  me  in  his  arms  again, 

Caressingly,  caressingly. 
Into  a  sea  of  peace  was  swept  my  pain 

So  suddenly,  oh  suddenly! 
He  held  me  close;  his  hand  lay  on  my  head; 
In  that  compelling  voice  I  love,  he  said, 

"Rest  here  with  me,  rest  here  with  me." 

A  little  while  I  leaned  against  his  heart, 

So  quietly,  oh  quietly! 
That  hour  has  robbed  our  parting  of  its  smart, 

In  days  to  be,  long  days  to  be. 
Oceans  are  far  too  small  to  separate, 
Nor  life  nor  death,  nor  height  nor  depth  nor  fate, 

My  Love  from  me,  dear  Love  from  me. 


THE  LAST  ANNIVERSARY 

FIFTEEN  years  ago,  dear, 

Fifteen  years  to-day! 
Let  us  walk  our  fields  together 

While  we  may. 

Shall  we  find  the  roses,  dear, 

Still  beside  the  Run, 
As  that  morning  when  beside  them 

Life  begun? 

Will  the  brook  sing  on,  dear, 

The  same  song  to-night 
As  that  evening  when  our  darkness 

Turned  to  light? 

One  third  of  my  life,  dear, 

Since  I  heard  you  call, 
And  put  by  my  work  and,  rising, 

Gave  you  all. 


68  THE    LAST    ANNIVERSARY 

Lay  your  hand  in  mine,  dear, 
Let  me  hear  you  say 

I  have  made  you  gladder  always 
Since  that  day! 


RETROSPECT 

i 

AH,  my  infinite  lover, 
Childhood  you  recover. 
Great  magician,  you! 
All  you  dreamed  came  true. 
Down  through  fairyland 
We  went,  hand  in  hand; 
By  the  river  of  life, 
Far  from  lands  of  strife, 
Through  fields  of  sunny  memory 
You  led  me  tenderly. 
At  light  of  your  gray  eyes 
Clouds  fled  the  skies; 
Out  of  my  life  one  day 
Pain  vanished  away. 

(Peace,  my  heart,  peace! 

Sorrow  now  shall  cease.) 


70  RETROSPECT 


n 

Broader  the  river  grows, 
A  deeper  current  flows, 
Higher  mountains  stand 
Shadowing  our  smiling  land; 
Taller  the  bare  trees  climb, 
Pointing  from  earth  and  time. 
Bend  down  your  stately  head 
Here  by  the  river's  bed. 
Ere  the  dark  night  shuts  down 
Take,  dear,  the  victor's  crown; 
Laurel,  laurel  is  thine, 
Fresh  and  fadeless,  hero  mine. 

(Rise,  my  heart,  rise! 

Give  him  the  prize.) 


RETROSPECT  71 


III 

Mountain  heights  are  cold, 
Though  laurel-crowned  and  bold. 
Victors'  brows  can  wear 
Lonely  pain  and  care. 
So,  ere  we  part, 
Take  my  roses'  heart. 
Sweet  their  petals,  even  in  death; 
Drink  deep  their  fragrant  breath. 
Laurel  and  roses  both  for  you, 
Hero  strong  and  lover  true! 

(Sleep,  my  heart,  sleep! 

God's  love  is  deep.) 


THE  END 


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i  •*  -  •*•*  °  <  •  p     2 

l   *  '*  ?    "*«  *  *       *    *  *  $ 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S    .   A 


Palmer  ,^rs.  A.  S. 

A  marriage  cycle 


/Z  t 

345200 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


